Then We Must Change
by DysfunctionallyCute
Summary: *Spoilers through Season Six.* This story follows Martin and Louisa (and James Henry) through the first few weeks after where season six left off, based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital.
1. Chapter One - Malformations

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters, and the actors who bring them to life, dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This completed story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted of; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs, I will post the first two chapters this weekend. This is my first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading! _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter One - Malformations**

'Look, I don't know what I'm doing, Margaret,' I had retorted at Martin's pain of a mother in the terminal, adding to my splitting headache, '– but I DO know that it's none of your bloody business.'

And that was the absolute and honest truth, on both counts. I still don't exactly know the lie of the land . . . but I bloody well better make it my business.

– And Martin's.

The ride home from hospital had been quiet, but not as uncomfortable as the last. . . . Just a subtle undercurrent of impending change swirling about. Martin had quite stunned me, post-op, when agreeing that falling back into the way things were is not an option. He had also opened up to me, asking for my help with our marriage; a side of him I have never been privy to in the time we have known each other. I've come to realise that when under extreme pressure, he can, and does, make decisions – and though I am not intentionally backing him into that corner, we both need to work on ways to reach that place together.

_Everything can't be up to me any more._

Pulling into the surgery car park, Ruth was waiting with James, who was sound asleep in his seat when Martin unbuckled him and carried him into the cottage. If I had feared a lecture from her, it had been unfounded, as she reassuringly looked at me with understanding and compassion when I thanked her for caring for our son.

"Well, a day to remember. . . . Now get some rest, I must be off!" Count on Ruth to tell it like it is.

My next hurdle, the slate steps up onto the porch, appeared almost insurmountable, but my sudden need to hide from the world gave me a jolt of energy. When the hum of Ruth's Mercedes disappeared in the distance, I suddenly felt strangely alone as I made my way around the back and inside; a last climb of stairs to my own bed.

"Are you adequately comfortable, balanced . . .?" Martin asked as he propped me up in our bed for a rest, James peeking at us from his little cot all the while.

I was sitting awkwardly against the middle of the headboard, surrounded by pillows in the same spot where not so long ago I had attempted to sleep – what would have been our last night under the same roof for a time.

_Yet, here you are again, Louisa; your second return home from hospital in as many days. Broken, bruised and glued, but you are both hurting now, aren't you?_

"– Louisa?"

"Yes. Yes, it's fine Martin," _even adequate . . . perhaps._

"Good. I will get you a drink of water, you need to stay hydrated."

As he headed for the door I asked him to pick James up for me, I wasn't used to being away from him this much and it had left me feeling even more on edge of late.

"– I really fancy a cup of tea, that alright?" but Martin was already halfway down the stairs by the sound of him.

With his entire face a grin, and his little hand grabbing at me, James was showing his complete unawareness of this giant mess of ours. It had smarted to have Margaret accusing me of running away with Martin's son. It wasn't what I wanted, but it had become what I had felt I needed to do – some space to think. I had wished-for the three of us to go on holiday, as a family, but was rejected. _Turned away more like._

"James, what am I doing, hm? What would you do?"

He looked at me, then turned at the sound of his father's approach and got right chatty all of a sudden. Has he got all the answers? Maybe – after all he came from the both of us, there should be some inerrant wisdom there. . . . It could be that simple, could it not – eat, sleep and love? That it?

"– You shouldn't have caffeine, Louisa."

He handed me the glass of water he had fetched. _So he had heard me._ I had a quick drink, before James would knock it over, and returned it for Martin to sort.

"I brought a biscuit."

The little saucer he passed me had a lone Chocolate Digestive placed neatly in the centre. I looked up at Martin, standing as rigidly as ever, looking like he was holding in a breath of stale air.

"For me?" . . . not that he would eat one.

"Yes."

"Thank you Martin, that is very sweet of you." It was rather endearing, really.

I had been stashing them out of sight. Mostly to avoid temptation, but also to stave off the bickering that was sure to come about with my partaking of 'empty calories', as he so aptly called them.

"So you found them, then?"

"Obviously. I put the packet on the second shelf in the pantry." _Oh._

"Right," I mumbled, biscuit crumbling in my mouth, the familiar flavour comforting.

"– Martin, have you eaten anything today? Anything at all?" He looked rather pale, I thought.

"I'm . . . not really very hungry."

"Well, _I_ should probably eat a little, right, like a proper meal? Maybe you can cook us both up some eggs? I mean, I know it's getting a bit late in the day for breakfast, but –"

"– Yes, right. Mm." And off he went, empty saucer in hand.

It was about that time for James as well, so we made our way downstairs into the kitchen. The light was on and the saucepan had two eggs in it, covered just so with cold water, sitting on the cooker waiting to be boiled.

I switched the hob on and turned to see Martin seated on the sofa across the way, in the dark and oblivious to our presence. The little brown and white table lamp on the far end would be passably dim, so I navigated the armchair, flicked the switch and carefully sat down.

As recognition turned his face slightly towards us, the shadows all but vanished in the glow and revealed a haunted expression that completely took me aback. Martin looked as vulnerable as I have ever seen him; his gaze steadying on James. I stood up, stepped over and lowered James onto Martin's lap, then sunk into the sofa cushion as close to them both as I could manage.

And there we sat in the quiet of our home, with only the slightest rumble of boiling eggs sounding from the kitchen.

"James and I almost lost you, Louisa." The words spilled out on a breath.

_And yes, we are clearly both hurting. . . ._

"But you didn't – and you haven't, and here we are now, yeah?"

Hearing our voices stirred James' senses and he started fussing about, clearly realising it was long past his supper. Mashed peas would be easy for tonight and he does quite like them.

The eggs had got a bit overcooked, which I know Martin doesn't care for. Famished, I was quietly pleased to have doubled up my meal for the night and insisted Martin do the same. He quickly poached two eggs for his toast, while heating James' peas, and all was not lost.

It was an oddly normal setting after a very draining and abnormal last few days. The three of us, having a quiet meal together. Not how I had foreseen I would be spending this eve, and if not for Martin I very well might not have been here at all. . . .

"Martin?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, for coming after me today."

"Yes. You already said that, earlier. In hospital."

"And I meant it." _And I will continue to tell you that._

"Louisa . . ."

He rinsed the washing up and placed it in the dishwasher.

"You really should get some rest, Louisa. How is your headache, any localised pain, pressure?"

"No, not really, I'm just a bit knackered . . . how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine . . . thank you."

I was feeling every bit as knackered as I had told Martin, and then some. A quick wash was all I could manage while he got James ready for bed.

James and I were in agreement, leastwise, for he was fast asleep in his cot by the time I had freshened up, wrestled my button down pyjama top over my burning shoulder and made my way out of the bathroom.

Putting our pillows back to their usual places, I snagged one of Martin's, for elevating my head, as well as the pair from the spare room for my shoulders. Then I crawled into Martin's spot and reclined as carefully as I could; hurting like hell truth be told. Paracetamol is all I have felt comfortable taking, caring for James, but it's really not adequate. _Adequate . . ._

My surgeon-husband stepped out after a shower and shave in his light blue pyjamas and went to check on James, then stood up and looked over at me.

"Had to switch sides, so you won't bump into me." He had retreated to the sofa last night, which had hurt far worse than a jab to my collarbone ever could have. . . .

He did not appear convinced.

"Louisa . . ."

"You asked me earlier if I was 'adequately comfortable', what's that mean exactly?"

"Hm?" He looked like he was still trying to decide whether I would slap him or pounce on him if he came any closer. Like I could or _would_ do either in my current condition.

"Just come to bed, will you?"

Martin stiffly placed himself on his back with both arms along his body, tucking the duvet neatly around himself. _And completely isolating himself in the process. _ Turning to my bedside he quickly realised his journals were on this end and with my glossy mags a sorry replacement, turned to stare at the ceiling.

I waved my right hand above his face. That got his attention and he actually turned and looked at me – really looked at me.

"Hello, Martin."

Lowering my arm I brought it to his side, joining our hands.

"There. Now I feel comfortable _and_ comforted, not just 'adequately comfortable'."

Squeezing my hand gently he moved over and kissed me lightly on the cheek, and I felt sleep seeping ever faster through my battered body.

"Mm. Okay, husband, tell me a bedtime story. The one where the brilliant surgeon rescues his distressed bride and mother of his son and then superglues her malformed brain back together – it's all a bit fuzzy."

He clutched my hand again, then propped himself up on his elbow looking intently at my fresh incision.

"Get to sleep, Louisa."

"I want to and I am tired, but my mind is going a mile a minute – and your voice can be very soothing. Did you know that?"

"No."

"Well it is, you are – can be. I just cannot grasp how you managed to put a tube inside my head, feed some glue through it and call it good, knowing that you fixed me . . . piece of cake. Hard to imagine."

I closed my eyes and exhaled what was left of the breath I knew I had been holding all day.

"Maybe one day I will be allowed to do the same for you – maybe one day you'll let me inside that brilliant head of yours for a bit. I'd like that anyway."

It got quiet for a good long while and I had practically nodded off when I felt a tear hit my cheek followed by a most heartfelt and lingering kiss, a _real_ kiss this time. _There is hope for us still, Martin. . . ._

"Good night Martin Ellingham; you _are_ an extraordinary man." _Please consider that._

"– And I do love you."


	2. Chapter Two - Frog In the Throat

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters and the actors who bring them to life dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This completed story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off and is based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted off; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs. My first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading and thanks for the enthusiastic reviews! – DC _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter Two - Frog In the Throat**

_Do you really want to be with Louisa?_

_ . . . why did you let her leave? _

_Why didn't you stop her? _

_ . . . you don't believe you deserve her, do you? _

_How could she love someone like you? _

_ . . . you pushed her away._

_Then you must change._

'Then you must change – If you're not willing to do that, then leave the poor girl alone.'

I wake bolt upright in bed, Aunt Ruth's words repeating in my mind as they have been since our talk at the farm yesterday.

_A lifetime ago. . . ._

My hands are clammy and my breathing erratic, I'm on the verge of a panic attack and I attempt to remain in control of my bodily processes by slowing my breathing, at which I appear somewhat successful. It is 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday and my wife and son are still here with me, sleeping.

Louisa's breathing is slow and steady next to me and I am relieved by her uneventful recovery. I have nearly lost her twice in the last few days and she has weeks of discomfort to endure ahead of her as a result of her recent ailments. Repeatedly she has expressed her gratitude to me for coming after her and for 'fixing' her, however I know that the pain that I have caused her goes far beyond my actions to the contrary.

In sleep she looks peaceful, her features relaxed and her mind at ease. Her worries seem to be somewhere else entirely. _I wish I knew where and I would eliminate them for her before she again regains consciousness and reconnects with reality. _

A sudden whimper and a cry bring me out of my brief reverie-like state as Louisa stirs. She settles back in and does not wake fully, but the slight bump on her left clavicle is a visual reminder to me that she is broken and hurting and only time can heal her. It is what I cannot see that causes me the greatest of concerns – there is emotional trauma beneath, and I know I am running out of time. _And chances. _

Louisa's soft green eyes are looking up at me in wonderment and I briefly speculate how long I must have been staring at her without seeing her.

"You're a million miles away." _No, I am not. . . ._

"You were . . . in pain – stirring, and it, um, upset me."

"Oh. Well, think I'm okay now though." _No . . . you are not._

"Mm."

She slowly sits up, gives my thigh a light squeeze through the cover and disappears into the bathroom. I can hear the toilet flush and the water run in the sink for some time before she reappears.

"Can I . . . sit with you for a while?"

"Um, yes – of course." She oddly paddles across the bed on her knees, balance a bit off with her arm in the sling, and sinks down beside me – her head resting somewhere between my shoulder and my chest.

"– Blanket?" … _blanket?_

"I can't . . . can you help me?"

"Right – yes, sorry." I pull the duvet free from where she is partially sitting on it and cover us both, legs down.

Reaching around me with her right arm she hugs me with half her might. It seems it should be more awkward, considering what has transpired between us, yet it's only natural for her to reach out. I am worried I will muck up._ I know I will muck up – in some manner._

"Snug as a Bug in a Rug." I can smell Listerine on her breath, which brings back memories I'd rather suppress.

My intentions had been good that day, _and many others, _but in hindsight I realise uttering my observations in the taxi cab was a mistake – Louisa must have found me a common arse. 'There is a time and a place for everything, Marty,' my Aunty Joan always said to me throughout the years. Unfortunately I don't believe the 'when' and the 'where' will ever be completely clear to me. _Arse!_

_. . . you don't believe you deserve her, do you?_

_How could she love someone like you?_

Do I deserve her? Do I?

"Louisa, I . . ." My heart rate is increasing, and I know she can feel it, or even hear it.

" . . . why do you love me?"

James chooses that moment to make his presence known and Louisa buries her face deeply into my chest, muffling a sigh, before pushing herself off me slowly so I can tend to our son's needs.

"Well, there is one reason right here, yeah? Takes after his Daddy, now doesn't he?" She's smiling at us from where she's sitting cross-legged in the middle of our bed.

I don't need to check him to know what is waiting for me – he had peas for supper and has slept through the night. One year ago this would have left me aghast, but now . . . I have learned, and I'm becoming quite proficient at caring for James. And I mostly enjoy my duties, such as they are.

"We, um, will need to get some supplies for James today," I say, not really wanting to discuss Louisa's botched departure, nor her absent luggage – now hopefully on its return flight from Spain. Pulling his only fresh set of clothes from the changing bag, I clean and dress him, then carry him over to his mother.

"Louisa?" She suddenly looks anguished.

"What's the matter?"

She hugs James tightly to her face and kisses him.

"I . . . lost James' frog puppet yesterday in the jumble, the little green one. I can't find him anywhere; not in my bag nor the changing bag – gone; vanished, and he absolutely loves his Froggy. And Purple Dinosaur isn't here with us either – I'm a HORRIBLE mum."

" – Louisa!" This I cannot stand for.

"Surely you don't mean that, you are a LOVELY mother."

"Am I? Am I, Martin? Then what am I doing – what are WE doing Martin, hm?" She is starting to sound cross, and tears are threatening to spill over. "And what sort of father and husband lets his wife pack up and leave with his SON and does NOTHING to stop it?!"

It feels like I've had the wind knocked out of me – blood is rushing from my head and I step back, stumbling over James' cot, trapping myself against it.

"– GOD, Martin, I'm sorry! Martin I'm so sorry. . . I didn't mean that, I did NOT mean it – please forgive me." She sounds sincerely horrified.

James starts to cry and I feel much the same way – I'm starting to clam up, my breath is quickening and my flight instinct is going into high gear.

_. . . why did you let her leave?_

_Why didn't you stop her?_

_Then you must change. _

"You are a lovely mother, Louisa." I step over to the wardrobe and reach for my suit trousers – right pocket, I then toss the little green puppet into her lap.

"I – I found it on the stairs yesterday, you had already . . . left." Turning back to the wardrobe, I look for suitable dress and start for the bathroom.

"Martin?" I can hear her crying now, voice unsteady.

"Yes."

"Come sit with us for a bit? – Please?"

I close my eyes. All I want is to get away, shut myself in the bathroom – if only for a short time, and have the water sluice down over me and wash all our troubles away. But since it is what I desire, it is not what I must do . . . I presume.

"Mm."

As I cautiously sit back down on the edge of the bed, James starts waving the green frog puppet at me with obvious enthusiasm, only to put it in his mouth and nibble at it – equally enthusiastically. The transferred emotional trauma from his parents is quickly displaced by the simple joys of a frog. _Like Father, like Son . . ._

Louisa wipes her face with her pyjama sleeve and instantly regrets it when she realises she can't effectively utilise her other hand to bunch the now wet and stained sleeve above her elbow and out of the way. She looks a pitiful mess. As more tears are rolling down her cheeks, and her long hair is sticking to her face – I reach over to her bedside table for the tissue box, put it in her lap and then go about rolling up her soggy sleeve. She briefly takes her eyes off the box and glances up at me, _likely to determine if I am about to explode, as would be my usual manner_, and then once more seems to focus on the box – as if a genie will magically appear. Eventually she seems to find her resolve and tilts her head up and looks me directly in the eye.

"James loves you, Martin – and you are a good father to him. You really are."

"I, um. N-no. . . ." I know nothing about being a father, let alone a good one.

" – Yes, Martin. Yes, you are. Don't let _anybody_ tell you differently. I love watching you interact with him and I love when you read to him, he is so intently focused on you – always."

Unfolding her legs she sits up on her knees, half behind me with her chin on my shoulder, watching James play on the bed while breathing into my neck – making me involuntarily shiver. She's running her fingers and nails through my hair aimlessly and it has a calming effect on me, as I feel my blood pressure and breathing pattern stabilise and the tension throughout my frame dissipate.

"– I love you because you are _you_, Martin."

This makes no sense to me, and doesn't really answer my question, but then very little of what Louisa says makes any sense to me whatsoever, at least initially – I need to learn to listen.

"I, um, is that – good?" _I probably shouldn't speak._

"You asked me for my help, I think, and I want to help you – we need to help each other, actually, and . . . but, I don't want to change you, I want to _find_ you."

She pecks at my neck and moves to sit in front of me at the edge of the bed, her right leg curled under her bottom and the other extended between my legs towards the floorboards. Seeking out my left hand, she takes it and starts playing with the wedding ring on my finger, clearly thinking long and hard at what she is wanting to say.

"I didn't _want_ to leave you, Martin, but _you_ had already left long ago. . . . Does that make sense?"

Her eyes are searching mine for some sign of comprehension, and deep down I know she is right – and I hope she can see that.

"It's been _so_ long since I've seen the real you – really seen you, Martin, and I have tried so hard to look for you – to connect with you, to help you find your way back and . . . and I've been absolutely unable to do that and – I'd completely given up. . . . That scares me, Martin, it frightens me a _helluva_ lot! Not only for me or for James, or us . . . but for _you_ – especially for you. If _I _can give up on you then, then . . ." She swallows and looks away for a while, composing herself.

"– I just, I want to take care of you, to hug on you, to talk with you; to love you and grow old with you – and to _be_ with you, in every sense of the word. I _need_ to be with you and I miss you and I'm _lonely_ Martin, I'm so very, very lonely."

_Do you really want to be with Louisa?_

_. . . you pushed her away._

"I do." She is so . . . brave? Yes, brave is the word I'm thinking of. _And beautiful, God – she is so beautiful._

"– What?" Louisa is hanging on to my every word.

"Yes. I mean – I _do_ think that makes sense and, yes, I did ask you to help me. I _am_ asking for your help, with . . . _this."_

"And are you going to let me this time – help, that is. Help _us_?" Insecure eyes are pleading with me, so full of hope.

"I am sorry you are lonely, Louisa." I take her face in my hands and look at her. "And . . . I am not very good at this – be patient with me?"

"Okay." A lone tear falls from her eye and I wipe it away with my thumb, seeing uncertainty written across her entire face.

"I love you, Louisa and I will always love you. You and James Henry are my family and –" her kiss cuts me off, desperate and needy and I savour the contact, which goes on until she has absolutely nothing left to offer.

I clear my throat, unusually thick with emotion, and kiss her on the top of her head as I carefully pull us into a hug.

"– everyone has to start somewhere."


	3. Chapter Three - Clock Off

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters and the actors who bring them to life dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off and is based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted off; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs. My first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading and thanks for the enthusiastic reviews! – DC _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter Three - Clock Off**

" – I am sorry you are lonely, Louisa." Martin took my face in his hands and looked at me. "And . . . I am not very good at this – be patient with me?"

"Okay." _Whatever you say. _

"I love you, Louisa and I will always love you. You and James Henry are my family and –" I cut him off. I had needed to hear that for so long that what was left of my emotional restraint at that point unravelled as I kissed him with everything I had, trying to convey the meaning of words he may not otherwise fully understand.

He eventually pulled me into a hug and if not for James I know could have stayed like that for a very long time – I finally felt somewhat grounded.

"– everyone has to start somewhere", he said as he placed a gentle kiss on the top of my head. _And that is a very uncomplicated truth indeed._

James had already had his nappy change, got dressed and had playtime, so he was not about to wait for his mum and dad to shower and dress for breakfast. After last night's eggs at dinner I settled on cornflakes while Martin prepared his usual egg, as well as a banana for James. I was stirring my tea, mouth full of cereal, when I noticed a little too late James grabbing and mashing a handful of the sliced banana Martin was feeding him and flinging it right at his daddy's face. I wouldn't say Martin enjoyed it, but he did tolerate it – leastwise till I lost my composure.

"Sorry Martin, 'least you haven't had your shower yet . . ." He scrutinised me as I slowly wiped the banana off his forehead, then smeared it onto my own.

". . . me neither."

"Louisa! That's incredibly –"

"– bananas?" I was being unusually silly and could tell his mind was turning – but in a good way, which made me smile. _Can't pretend to be in the dark all the time, now can he?_

I've got to give Martin a lot of credit for how he had handled himself this morning – and how he had handled _me_, as I had not behaved at all kindly nor rationally. For all of his eccentricities and crudeness, it would appear I come with my own set of quirks and . . . challenges. Unluckily, many of my less than stellar moments have come about since I met Martin – he has got _all_ of my emotions astir it seems, and he has come to tolerate his fair share of nerviness from me. All the same, this week I boiled over, simple as that, and though he was mostly the reason for it, he has been here for us to help pick up the pieces.

We've cleared the air a bit, and I've tried to explain what it is that's got me so troubled and out of sorts and I feel he actually understands, 'least I think he does. Like Martin said; 'everyone has to start somewhere', and we have taken that first step of communicating and connecting again. He has recognised that we've got problems and has asked for my help in working through them – that is a very good place to start and I'm quite pleased with him for it.

After breakfast and showers, and tidying up . . . we planned for a short drive to Wadebridge to pick up some supplies for James. We needed them, well James did, and I also needed to get out of the house for a bit without having to explain myself to the entire village. Martin was getting James into his car seat when the airline phoned me about my luggage; it had arrived back to Newquay and I could pay a charge to have it delivered or I could fetch it myself. Having the delivery van come to the cottage was best avoided I thought, and I was keen on getting our things now, anyhow. I was in no condition to drive, _ even if I'd had my old car still, _so it would have to be up to Martin to decide.

"That was the airline phoning, I can fetch my luggage today."

. . .

"– What, go pick it up? Oh rubbish, we will pay to have them deliver it, Louisa." _Stick of rock that he is._

"'We could do that, 'course – _or –_ we can continue on, as we are already on our way. Only we can go on to Newquay instead now, seeing that we needn't really buy any supplies then, yeah?"

"Well I suppose, but –"

"That's settled, then, it's only 20 more minutes, anyhow. Alright, James, we are going for a drive with Daddy to go see the big aeroplanes!"

James and I had made this same trip 24 hours ago. In a taxi cab. Without Martin. I had been running, really. _Like Mother, like Daughter. . . . _ But I wasn't running _to_ something, or _someone_, like my mother had done, I was running away from a problem I didn't know how to mend on my own – and I had very much felt on my own. There's some justice in that, isn't there? Only this isn't about being justified, now is it? _For better or for worse . . . _

"I ran into your mother in the terminal yesterday."

"Mm. She won't be returning."

He took in a deep breath.

"She had your grandfather's clock, you know, said you gave it to her."

"She was lying, I dismissed her." _I had maybe thought that to be how it was. . . ._

"Oh. Well, I did tell her I didn't like her very much, nor the way she treated you . . . so I needn't apologise to you then?"

"No. Louisa, can we . . . not talk about my mother. She's gone and will not bother us again."

Okay, Martin, until later. But I think you are wrong, she will be, and _is,_ bothering you more than you realise. _And we are going to have to talk about it at some point._

"Alright, for now." I leaned forward and squeezed his shoulder for reassurance, hoping he didn't question my yelp and claw-like grip as the seat belt tightened over my collarbone. _Stupid, Louisa! _

Martin studied me in the rear-view mirror for some time, it was unnerving and I wondered what it was that he was thinking 'bout. . . . There were a few minutes of awkward silence, before he spoke again.

"Did I mention my Aunt Ruth is going into business with Al on a fishing holiday venture, based out of the B&B at the farm?"

"No! Al Large, _our _Al, Bert's Al?"

"Yes. Purportedly the business was his idea and Ruth did her homework and found that his figures held up quite well under close examination."

"So . . . Al and Ruth, that's great! I'm really happy for Al, he's done a lot of growing up of late and is turning into a better, and less irritating, version of his dad. Good for him, finally finding his way."

By the time we got to the airport, James was due for his nappy change, so Martin very reluctantly took him into the public family toilet with the baby changing unit, while I went to the ladies for a wee. I then gave Martin my boarding card and ticket stub for him to fetch my bags and James' buggy, before I took James to the large window to watch the planes. For once, luggage retrieval went smoothly and James looked at his daddy like he were a madman when he saw his buggy approaching with my smaller bag sitting in _his_ seat.

"I couldn't wheel two bags _and_ the buggy very efficiently, and I have two functioning arms. How did you manage yesterday?"

I hadn't managed well yesterday, at all, on any level honestly.

"I . . . got some help, a family travelling on holiday took pity on me."

"I see."

He could sound so patronising at times.

"What's that mean, 'I see'?"

"Nothing Louisa, I just . . . you would not have been here at all if I had not been an idiot."

Somewhat true, but it's more complicated than that I'm afraid. . . .

"– And _I_ was silly for _coming_ here like this, so that must mean we are a well suited pair then?" _ Can we just talk 'bout this later?_

"Mm, possibly. Ready to leave?" With words averted, I swapped James and my bag and off to the car park we went.

As Martin folded down the buggy I looked through my smaller bag for James' favourite dinosaur and found it. One more thing falling into place and I felt relieved. And with the remains of my departure safely tucked away in the boot, we turned homewards.

"I'm becoming a bit peckish, Martin, you want to stop into Wadebridge for lunch?"

"Um, no."

"Oh. Not hungry then, are you?"

"Yes, but we don't need to eat in Wadebridge." No, 'course we don't _need_ to . . .

"It was just a thought, Martin. I was thinking it would be a nice treat for us to eat out is all."

"Mm."

We drove on through Wadebridge and rolled right along the moors – I was getting hungry and weary and the motion almost had me in a lull when I realised Martin had gone quite a ways past our usual exit road to the village.

"Martin, did you forget our turn back there?"

"No."

"Okay . . ." He was acting very odd and looking at me in the mirror again.

Not even a mile on up the road, he slowed and pulled into The Coach & Four and I about did a double take.

"I thought we would eat here – if you like." He looked at me nervously, then got James out of his car seat.

"I . . . yes, Martin, I would like that." He had brought us back to the very place where our lives had changed in the most momentous of ways, the day our son was born – here, in this very pub. _Something was indeed changing._

Martin ordered the hake with roast potatoes and I got the wholetail scampi basket, which came with peas that I could share with James. We got some apple sauce for him as well.

"I'm . . . impressed, Martin. This is very sweet of you – thank you." And I was impressed, this was not something Martin would normally do.

"I find it a worthy place to revisit, last time we were here made quite the impression on me. It was . . . memorable." He looked at me with a light in his eyes that I don't get to see very often, but when I do – it is very powerful communication; a look of admiration and love that commands my attention. I am always incapable of breaking away when he looks at me like that.

"Yes," I said somewhat dumbly, ". . . memorable", 'cause it had been that.

"And this is nice, us eating lunch together – just you and me and James."

"Yes. Louisa, I . . ." He set down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with the serviette while gathering his thoughts.

"I will be making some changes to the surgery." _The surgery?_

"Oh. What kind of changes?"

"Starting tomorrow, the surgery will be closing down at one o'clock for lunch every weekday for one hour."

"Really? That will be nice, Martin. I like that. Though, how are you going to manage it, exactly – by frightening people off? Come to think of it, that may not be very difficult." I smiled at him and steered another spoonful of apple-sauce in James' direction.

"No. And I'm certain Morwenna will do just fine, Pauline was quite efficient at it I might add."

He drank about half of his glass of water in one swig, sat it it down ever so carefully and then went on.

"And this week the surgery answerphone message will be changed to reflect a surgery closure this upcoming Friday and Saturday and, as such, will refer my non-critical patients to the Wadebridge surgery, and the out-of-hours service, in my absence. This has been cleared with Chris Parsons. Scheduled appointments will be rescheduled for a later time."

"Surgery closure . . . what's going on, Martin, where are you going?" I was getting worried now, he'd lost a lot of weight since the blood thing came back and he hasn't been sleeping or eating enough to stay healthy for the long run neither . . . and calling on Chris Parsons?

"– Martin?"

"_We_ are going away, Louisa – for a long weekend, if your offer still stands."


	4. Chapter Four - Chewing the Cud

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters and the actors who bring them to life dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off and is based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted off; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs. My first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading and thanks for the enthusiastic reviews! – DC _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter Four - Chewing the Cud**

_I wonder if you should come to London, now there's a baby . . .  
. . . There was always gonna be a baby though, wasn't there? I mean, I was pregnant.  
Yes, but it's different, now that it's here . . .  
. . . Is it, Martin?_

_Yes._

The moonlight coming through the window is exactly as I remember it from some thirty-odd summers ago. Then, as now, had the bright light illuminated the room and kept me awake and lost in thought into the early hours; an alternative black and white universe where everything seemed simpler, if only for a short while. This time around, I'm not alone in my universe and it certainly has become a colourful one. I have my own little family – a world to which I am a stranger, but one in which I want to live._ It's where I want to be, because they're here._

Louisa looks beautiful, clad in a strappy, well-worn dress, sleeping awkwardly pressed up against my side with her head on my shoulder. She's been favouring the garment this week for its 'comfort and ease of getting in and out of, sling and all'. _I quite favour her in it as well_. When she went to sleep earlier, she partially slid off her supportive pile of pillows and ended up wedged between the squares and I, seemingly not the worse for wear and still relatively supine. These last few nights have brought on improvement as Louisa agreed, after major convincing, to take opiates at bedtime for the pain of her fractured clavicle. 'But only because _you_ asked me to, not because you, _the Doctor_, told me to, is that clear Martin?' No, it is not clear. Frankly I don't see the distinction, but obviously there is a perceived one and I had refrained from answering her question – I_ can _learn.

At the opposite end of the room James is sleeping peacefully in the brand new travel cot Ruth had stocked. He is now in the exact location my boyhood single bed once were and the moon is shining brilliantly across his chest, redirected and dispersed into its full spectrum by the old prism in the window above it – as if emphasising the added colour in my life.

I have a son and he is my second chance.

_I'm not going to be like my father . . ._

_. . . and he's not going to be like me._

Opening my eyes sunlight is hitting directly on my face, which means it must be getting close to six in the morning. Seeing that Louisa is still sound asleep against my shoulder, she will experience the same wake-up call in a matter of minutes. . . . I will have to mention that to Ruth, as future guests will probably appreciate the option of a little less lunar and solar luminosity, at least while attempting to sleep. When she had suggested I spend a few days here on the farm 'before all hell breaks loose with the new business', I had initially bristled at the idea, finding the prospect dreary and pointless. I had, as well, been absolutely drained after performing Louisa's AVM surgery. Then Aunt had bluntly stated that the time to act was now. 'Martin, you spent some of the happiest moments of your life at that farm. Go gather the family up and show them a part of you they are in desperate need of seeing – find some common ground, stop waiting.'

_If you want to change your circumstances, then change them . . ._

_. . . Only you can do it._

"Morning, Mrs. Ellingham." Louisa is the antithesis of a morning person.

"Oh, is it . . . what time is it?"

"It is 6am. Did you sleep well?" Hearing my voice again she seems to realise that I am the pillow under her head.

"Yes, actually, I did. Um, did I move – I mean, did I wake you, moving 'bout?"

"No. No, you . . . you haven't moved since you went to sleep."

"Oh, right. Good, then. Well . . . So . . . Ruth, she should probably get some curtains for the guests, yeah? You know, it _is _a bit early still and all. No, not curtains, shutters. Maybe those shutters? Oh you know, the split ones that fold in half, America style, what are they called again? They would be perfect, those, those . . . PLANTATION! Yes – plantation shutters. Don't you think? They would be great for the windows here, yeah? Shutters?"

"Mm. I need to pee."

"What?"

"I need to pee?"

"Oh. Yes, 'course."

Lowering Louisa gently to my pillow I get out of bed and turn to cover her back up. Looking at me through sleepy eyes a ray of sun partially lands across her face as I step aside and she throws her free arm across her forehead in annoyance. Her hair is splayed disorderly over my pillow, her sling is bunched up and her green dress is wrinkly from sleep. _She's a beautiful mess . . ._

"Seriously – shutters. 'Least I'm already wearing a sundress, though a hat would do me well right 'bout now."

"You look beautiful, Louisa." Her sleepy eyes widen and she looks surprised, awake.

". . . Thank you."

"Mm."

Not much has changed at the farm since Ruth has been here, things are just cleaner and in a higher state of repair – hot water again ample, much as I remember it when Uncle Phil was still around. I switch the knob off and head back into the bedroom, checking on James Henry who is well clear of the sun and sleeping soundly.

"Be mindful of the hot water, Louisa – it is scolding. Likely also in the bath, I imagine. Another item for the list."

"Yes, I noticed that. And the bath is enormous, quite impressive really – a perfect place for a sit and a think. And James will enjoy it."

"Yes, I did. I used to walk the lake and bring back tadpoles and frogs."

" – Into the bath? And they would just . . . stay there?"

Louisa is looking mildly horrified now.

"Um, no. Aunty Joan . . . put her foot down after that." There were probably desiccated amphibians throughout the farm house for years after my visits. . . .

"Come here, Martin – come sit with me for a bit. Tell me about your walks on the wild side."

Where the bed is placed against two walls in the long and narrow room, Louisa has stacked the pillows and propped herself up in the corner, looking quite contented to be lounging out of the direct sun.

"Um, you have all the pillows."

"I do, don't I? Reckon you'll just have to lean on _me_, then. . . ."

"Erm. . . best not."

"And why not? Does me hugging on you make you uncomfortable?"

She's challenging me now.

"No. You have a broken clavicle and you are wearing a sling."

"And here I thought you rather liked me back when I was a pirate wearing my eye patch. . . did it suit me better, that it?"

"I did – I _do_, but you are _injured_, Louisa, the last thing you need is me . . . _crushing_ you." Tilting her head she smiles at me and there is absolutely no reasoning with Louisa when her mind is made up like this.

"Right, yes . . . so you'd better stay on my good side, then. And I _do_ need you, Martin, but thank you for your concern, that is sweet."

I end up leaning mostly against the wall, with Louisa hugging me to her and resting her head against me – she can be a very determined woman. But it does suit her._ And me, most of the time._

At breakfast the chickens grace us with fresh eggs and I throw some crumble about for their efforts. Al had provided extra water rations for all the animals before leaving for the Cornwall Tourism Conference in Truro, so other than the chicken feeds, Ruth had insisted our only additional responsibility while here is counting the sheep. This time of year grazing is especially good, I was told, so no sheep have escaped their pastures in quite a while, purportedly.

"How many has she got exactly, Martin?" We are walking along the stone wall and finally spot the herd.

"According to Ruth, eleven, so that will be when I stop counting."

"Right. I can see . . . eight, I think?"

"Hm, yes." When Uncle Phil had been around, the herd had been almost a hundred strong and there were always at least one or two seeking shelter along the walls.

"Martin, they could be behind the hedge, you know. Why don't we climb back up the hillside and sit down for a bit, let James play in the grass – maybe they'll pop 'round?"

Seemingly of their own volition, my firm strides lead me to a familiar spot. As we sit down, James instantly starts flailing and whinging, begging to be set free to explore his new environment. On the countless occasions Aunty Joan brought me here, I don't ever recall considering it could be our last._ . . . Perhaps today signifies a new beginning._

I loosen my hold on James and he quickly covers ground towards some unknown destination ahead and I'm again amazed by the fact that I have a son. He came into my world just as Aunty Joan departed it.

"What are you thinking 'bout?" Louisa looks at me and linking our arms leans on me for support.

"Hm?"

I focus on the nonsensical criss-cross pattern of flattened grass James is leaving behind in his wake, he is quickly wearing himself out, which bodes well for a nap soon.

"Joan is everywhere here, isn't she? I feel her, too, and James will get to know her through you, the values she instilled in you. She would be proud of you, of us – our little family, for having come this far and for trying to work through this. You know that, right?"

Often Louisa's perceptiveness leaves me feeling uncomfortably exposed, but not this time. Being here at the farm with her is . . . different somehow.

"James is going to be covered in grass stains, they will be hard to take out."

"How do you mean? The washer will get the worst of it, the rest doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Mm, no . . . I suppose not."

She is right, of course, I now realise. It doesn't matter. _It shouldn't have mattered._

"Every summer, on my last day here, Aunty Joan would scrub the grass stains out of my shirts and wool shorts to make me unobjectionable to my parents upon my return. And every year the scent of Knight's Castile soap would linger on her hands when she held on to me awaiting the train at Bodmin Parkway. It was all I could do to board the train before vomiting onto the bagged sandwich she always packed for me. I don't think she ever suspected."

". . . I'm so sorry, Martin."

"If Joan were here she would have encouraged James."

Louisa brings her arm around me lovingly, then starts rubbing my back – a measure of comfort I am beginning to value from her.

"Yes, Martin. Yes, she would have. . . ."

A squeal from James, upon spotting a butterfly, brings us both back to the present and I wordlessly vow to never silence his enthusiasm.

. . .

"Still eight," she says after some time, and I automatically resume counting the sheep. "That must be a close-knit family of three hiding out there somewhere, sticking together on the same path – out of the spotlight."

"Yes," I say, wondering for the umpteenth time how I've come to deserve having Louisa in my life.

"I'm glad to see you without your suit jacket and tie, Martin, it makes me happy – for you as well."

_Happy._

"What do you mean?" She is smiling at me again.

"I don't really know, it just feels differently. Like maybe I'm . . . special in some way, allowed to see you like this. It's nice."

"Why would you think otherwise?"

One-handedly, she starts loosely folding up my shirt sleeves.

"You know, you and me, sitting up here now like this, takes me back to a dream I had, years ago. We were on a picnic and you were wining and dining me and it was all very romantic. Your shirt sleeves were rolled up like this and you were actually smiling at me – the whole experience was quite . . . earth-shattering, really. Then, you were just about to kiss me and . . ."

She looks over at James, who at this point has crawled quite a distance away. I go pick him up and from my towering vantage point spot eleven sheep on pasture in the distance before returning to Louisa's side.

"– And?"

"And . . . then something woke me up." Looking at me expectantly, her eyes seem alive with encouragement.

Uncertain of what to say next I lean in and kiss her soundly, hoping she will comprehend all the things that I cannot.


	5. Chapter 5 - Home Was Not Built In A Day

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters and the actors who bring them to life dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off and is based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted off; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs. My first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading and thanks for the enthusiastic reviews! – DC _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter Five - Home Was Not Built In A Day**

_'You know, I'm glad to see you without your suit jacket and tie, Martin, it makes me happy – for you as well.'_

_'What do you mean?'_

_'Oh, I don't really know, it just feels differently. Like maybe I'm . . . special in some way, allowed to see you like this. It's nice.'_

_'Why would you think otherwise?'_

Why _would_ I think otherwise?

Even though we've got our share of problems, I've never doubted how special James and I are to Martin. I was just the recipient of the most loving kiss imaginable, one that spoke volumes of the man I married. The same extraordinary man who one day late in life found himself a father; the father of our beautiful son who was now sleeping soundly on his father's lap. No, I have no doubts. What I have is fear and my fear lately has been my . . . confusion as to what this all really means – for Martin, for us three. For me. In what way are we special; who are we together and what is our definition of _Us _– our Family?

"Martin, when you asked me the other day why I love you . . . your mind is another reason. When you do brilliant things that save people, and help people, there's nobody out there like you – so dedicated and honest, and well-meaning. When I least expect it, you can be so sweet – and you don't even know it, which makes it that much more special and authentic and, and . . . . who am I to take that away?"

"I, I'm not sure that I understand. Take what away?"

"Well . . . _you_."

His eyes were intensely focused on mine as I ran my hand down the side of his face and left it cupping his cheek, needing to feel him and reassure him.

"I'm hurting, Martin. And so are you. Why is that?"

"I . . . don't know." His voice was a mere whisper as he wilted in my hand.

"Martin, look at me. You and me, we're both strong persons, survivors really – 'cause we've learnt to be. Those are good things; something we have in common. So now, together, we should make an even stronger team, then, right?"

"Logically, yes."

"But that's not the case, though, is it? Rather than join forces, it seems we bring forth each other's weaknesses most the time, and we need to get that sorted; we need to understand why that is and how to go 'bout making it better. I know we can – and we will, but . . . I don't know how, Martin, and I'm scared to get it wrong. Terrified, actually. And when I'm scared, I run. . . ."

He gently touched my cheek with the back of his hand, a familiar gesture that encouraged me to finish what I needed to say.

"This, _that, _part of us; our past – our parents, is . . . is something I don't feel equipped to deal with, something I feel we need professional help to get us through in a healthy way – at least I know that I do, Martin. I can't do this on my own – there's too much to lose, I can't risk it. I _won't_ risk it."

Having managed to put my thoughts into words better than I'd hoped for I breathed a sigh of relief and put my forehead against Martin's whilst closing my eyes, needing a minute.

"Fear of a diagnosis never changed an underlying problem." He sounded almost . . . reverent.

". . . What was that?"

"There _is_ too much to lose, I don't want that either. And . . . you won't be on your own, Louisa."

"Good."

"Yes."

I looked down at James' delicate little hand, only inches away from his father's considerably larger, yet skilfully delicate version – one curled in sleep, the other in contemplation. I linked Martin's with mine an gave him a comforting squeeze.

"Martin, I think that what I _can _help you with, what I can help _us_ with, is cherishing closeness and learning to trust it. If we could learn to . . . communicate better, without having to actually form the words, wouldn't that be a good thing for both of us you think?"

"That could be useful, yes"

"Right. And it is nice, you know, when you've had a crap day, to know that there's somebody waiting for you at home who will give you a hug or a kiss and make it all better."

"A hug and a kiss can not change the the 'crap' of the day, if it has already happened."

"Well . . . it can't change the crap, maybe, but affection can make one feel better, feel loved, and that in turn it can change the day for the better, yeah?"

"I suppose that is possible."

"Say you just finished a particularly bad lot of moaning patients, and I gave you a hug or a peck on the cheek, would that make your day worse or would it maybe cheer you up a bit, reminding you that there is more to life than your patients?"

"Um, it quite possibly would make me uncomfortable – with my patients there."

"Alright . . . but if I have your undivided attention, do I have your consent to hug on you or kiss you if I want to?"

"I . . . think I can get used to that."

"Good, me too."

One step at a time, hopefully he'll get comfortable enough over time to come to me when he needs me, or when I need him.

_'Least he's got James until then. . . ._

". . . Martin?"

He was looking at me again like he was analysing me, which always makes me slightly uncomfortable.

"The abrasion on your cheek has almost completely healed, the epidermis showing hardly any traces of scarring. It looks good."

"_It_ looks good or I look good?"

I was trying for light-hearted, to move on from our valuable, but draining, talk, but Martin's face fell instantly. Then he touched my wounded cheek ever so gently with his thumb, just staring at me.

"You didn't want me there. . . ."

"Where?"

"In the ambulance, you didn't want me there."

_Ah . . ._

"I wanted my _husband_ there, Martin, I was already being cared for by a medic."

"But I am your husband."

"Yes, but you wanted to go with me as my doctor."

"I am a doctor."

"Yes you are, Martin, but . . . what I _needed_ right then was for my husband to comfort me, not for my doctor to annoy everybody else by chasing them up."

"But, Louisa . . ."

"– You wanted to make sure I had the best care possible because you care about me. I know that Martin, and I love you for that – I really do, and I didn't mean to hurt you. I was hurt, too, you know. . . . and I was angry with you, disappointed."

"Yes."

"And . . . that's exactly how I felt when you didn't tell me your blood thing had come back. I felt like you didn't want me there, helping you – as your wife. That you'd rather shut me out, leaving me behind and pulling away, when I wanted to comfort you and be there for you."

". . . I see." And maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to I thought.

Just then, the first heavy drop of a summer downpour landed square on James' nose, startling him awake. Big, bright eyes looked right at me, much as he had when Martin had mixed his formula but missed tightening the lid. Yet this time I started laughing, and so then did my son - heartily. While picking a giggling James up off his lap with his right hand and standing and pulling me to my feet with his left, I noticed that my husband, the gruff Martin Ellingham, was actually almost smiling to himself as we hurried along the path towards the farm, like sheep.

"James and I are cooking you supper tonight – almond-crusted salmon with broccoli, and wild rice pilaf with mushrooms. Um, and . . . ice cream afterwards."

_Ice cream?_

"Oh, that sounds absolutely lovely, Martin – ice cream, really? I didn't think you liked ice cream, it –"

"– hurts my teeth, yes. But _you_ like ice cream and just like broccoli, it is rich in calcium, which you should be eating plenty of while your clavicle is healing. The broccoli also contains vitamin K for bone mineralisation, the rice is an excellent source of phosphorus and lysine, and the salmon and mushrooms will provide you with vitamin D to better absorb the calcium."

"Right, yes. So . . . what I'm really hearing, then, is that I should eat plenty of ice cream?"

"Erm, no. Real Cornish Ice Cream is high in saturated fats, but also contains a fair amount of beneficial protein in addition to the calcium. And it is a natural product; much preferred over the sugary, oily and starchy excuses for ice cream found in most supermarkets. Moderation is always key to a healthy diet, Louisa, and –" I kissed him silent to save us both, then gave James a peck on the cheek.

"I know, Martin, I was joking – or maybe not? I think I will draw a bath and think on it some while you lot work your culinary magic."

I've been learning to recognise Martin's efforts as the unique tokens of affection that they are. He does put a lot of thought and effort into ensuring my well-being, the way he knows best. But sometimes I can't help but stir him up a bit by encouraging his mind to skip a few tracks ahead. A smirk was already firmly in place on my face at this point, and I doubt even Martin could have missed it. I started to head for the stairs, but my two handsome Ellingham men compelled me to turn 'round once more.

"Oh, and Martin? I, for one, am _very happy_ that you prefer real and natural Cornish-made_._ And, as you observantly pointed out, we have indeed been known to come with a few . . . _benefits_."

With that I left him to it, looking rather gobsmacked I might add, while I made my way upstairs to submerge myself and my sorry shoulder into the luxury of a warm, soothing bath.

"This is delicious, Martin, you have outdone yourself really. The pilaf is to die for, as is the salmon, and my wine really brings out all the wonderful flavours. Are you sure I can't tempt you with even just a half-glass, so you can experience it for yourself?" I had picked up a few bits and pieces for this weekend, a bottle of wine amongst them.

"Um, no, thank you. As you well know, alcohol –"

"– makes you sleepy. Yes, hard to forget that evening." It had been an unforgettable evening, which unfortunately didn't get to live up to its potential of becoming an unforgettable night. But nonetheless, I will treasure the memories. _Now, the following day . . ._

"Mm, I'll take your word for it." _Yes, Martin's memory of that evening is spotty at best, shame that is._

"Though, Martin, I've been thinking . . . and I've a question for you that you may find . . . intriguing, even. 'Least I am curious to figure out this side of you."

"Erm, Louisa, I . . ."

"Oh, nothing serious, don't be having kittens, Martin. Actually it is rather silly, but I want to hear your medical opinion on the matter, if you have one." The mere mention of the word 'medical' seemed to instantly put him at ease.

"Do you remember when I first asked you to my place, for dinner?"

"Yes, fondly."

"Yes, me too. And the next day when I came to your surgery for . . . well, and I asked you what time for dinner?"

"I do."

"You said you'd rather not eat after 6:30 because it keeps you awake?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Well, so if eating a later meal keeps you awake, and drinking wine puts you to sleep, then . . . what do you reckon would happen if I were to plan a romantic late evening dinner for us sometime, where we share a bottle of wine, maybe? We never really got to finish the champagne on our honeymoon and, well . . . I just wonder, that's all. I'm not saying you _have_ to drink alcohol, Martin, I'm just thinking that somehow they would cancel each other out? Maybe, yeah?"

He was quiet for a long time, a very long time. I'd almost decided to tell him to forget I ever said anything of the sort, when he glanced across the table at me looking . . . _smug_?

"I would say the outcome would be . . . predictable."

"What, predictable how – that you'll fall asleep? I thought maybe –"

"– I didn't say that."

"So, what . . . you think the 'carbohydrates' will keep you up till the wee hours, then?"

"Did I say that?"

"Martin, you're not making any sense, I thought . . . I though that maybe, just maybe, you'd find this an interesting challenge, you know – medical _and_ practical at the same time."

"I always find you to be an interesting challenge."

"Then what are you saying, exactly, Martin?"

Now he looked decidedly smug with that rare and intense gaze of his that always sets my heart racing. . . .

"Louisa – I look forward to it."


	6. Chapter Six - Body Language

_'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters and the actors who bring them to life dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off and is based on their tentative understanding reached in the hospital. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted off; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs. My first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading and thanks for the enthusiastic reviews! – DC _

**~Then We Must Change~**

**Chapter Six - Body Language**

"Out like a light, he's turned into such a great little sleeper. Here he is in a new environment, yet not the least bit bothered – just another day."

"Well, yes, but _we_ are here, Louisa, and he is aware of _us_ – we are his environment. There have been a number of studies that show that in children under two years of age, the auditory environments are of far greater significance to the child's health and development than those made up of visual and material surroundings."

Louisa stands quietly by the cot for a minute longer before slowly climbing across the bed and settling into place amongst the pillows. Returning my book to the bedside table I switch off the light, noticing at once the slightly softer shadows in the room tonight. Earlier I secured a rope between the rafters and draped three spare sheets over it, mainly to break the harsh morning rays, but they now also seem to have a dimming effect on the moonlight coming through. I glance over at Louisa, who is unusually quiet and appears lost in thought, unconsciously hugging herself and rubbing her clavicle.

"Louisa . . . ?"

"Martin, if . . . if we weren't here now, if we hadn't got James – where would we have been?"

_Lost? _

"I would have been . . . in London, presumably."

"Oh . . . right."

"Looking for you, assuming you . . . would still have been there." As she thinks on that, her face appears to light up a little and she turns towards me.

"You'd have been in London, looking for _me_?"

_Yes, I didn't want you to leave. . . . _That had been another driving factor behind my returning to a post at Imperial.

"Yes . . ."

"I would have been glad to see you, you know, back when I . . ." Carefully she moves over, kisses me on the cheek and tries to get comfortable. ". . . I really missed you."

I'm always amazed at how freely Louisa shares her emotion. She looks me in the eye and tells me exactly how she feels, kisses my cheek, takes my hand – smiles at me . . . She's very emotional; _reactive,_ good and bad, I'm not like that. Or is it a learned behaviour? _Or in my case an unlearned behaviour that can be learned?_ 'The Ellingham curse – never talking about anything, keeping our feelings hidden.' Aunty Joan had been right about that. She also said people don't change . . . I am determined to prove her wrong.

"So you missed me as well, then?" Louisa interjects at my silence. "Martin, I think . . . when you asked me why I love you, well, I . . . I think I wanted to ask you the same thing. Actually, no – I didn't want to _ask_ you, I want you to _think_ on it – just _you_ think on it for your own sake, alright? Can you do that, for me? And I know I'm being silly, probably . . . but just maybe you can do?"

"Yes, I did and yes, I will. Louisa, I, um, I want to thank you, for – for giving me another chance to . . . learn. And for suggesting coming here – going away, I mean. It was a good idea."

Coming here, specifically, with our mobile phones switched off, was also a good idea – Aunt Ruth can be quite astute. We are five miles from home and with Al off in Truro, nobody is the wiser. I am in a place I feel . . . myself; familiar, and that is good.

"Martin – me too."

Restless and not able to settle in, Louisa sits back up and appears to flex her neck by rolling her head.

"Is it musculoskeletal or neurological?"

"What?"

"Your neck. Is the pain musculoskeletal or neurological?"

"Oh, it's just . . . sore I think. With this bloody sling pulling on me at all hours it's honestly a wonder my head's still on!"

"Right. Take it off."

"My head? I'd like to sometimes, Martin, I really would, but I think I'll be worse off without –" She's all but sticking her tongue out at me.

"– Oh for God's sake! Take _the sling_ off, Louisa, and I will bandage your arm in place; immobilise it. Give your neck a rest."

"You can do that?"

"Yes."

I get up and go off in search for suitable supplies in my bag, collecting an extra wide and long roll of conforming bandage from the back of the compartment, along with some adhesive tape, and I am again reminded of why I insist on keeping a fully stocked medical bag at all times. Louisa is sitting on the bed just as I left her, but for cradling her now freed arm.

"I am going to be applying a modified Sayre's bandage, which will aid in the immobilisation of the clavicle by wrapping of the affected arm against the trunk and by applying tension against the opposite shoulder."

"Okay. Well, that sounds very . . . involved."

"No, it really isn't, just a matter of physics and correct application technique. Hm, do you have a . . . one of those ties or clips, for your hair?"

"There should be a scrunchy in the bathroom . . . somewhere."

"A what?"

"Hair band. I know I left it in there – fat, brown, wrinkly-looking . . . maybe on the floor?" She's speaking up to carry into the bathroom, as I am searching for what; I do not know.

"– Yes, righto." _A very accurate description, at that. _I have done this exactly once before, one week ago . . . another thing at which I need practice.

"Um, I'm not very good at this . . ." I am, however, trying to be more careful.

"But you're learning, and you didn't pull my hair this time, you know."

"Mm, yes. Good. So, then . . . it's probably best if you stand up, so I can better –" . . . _access you, get to you, tend to you?_ Treat you better.

"– So I can apply the bandage more efficiently."

"Alright, that I can do – well, I think."

Somehow she swings her legs around to the side of the bed without letting go of her arm, and I clumsily help her up and over to the window where the moonlight is more than sufficient, I then turn to stand behind her.

"Your neck _is_ very tense. Does this cause actual pain or is it mainly sore, like a minor discomfort?" As I palpate Louisa's neck, attempting to eliminate the possibility of any actual compression damage, the warmth of her skin – of my _wife_, makes me realise that this is going to be anything but simple physics.

"It, um . . . it doesn't cause pain."

"Good. You . . . will have to remove your, um, dress – or I can remove it for you, if you need me to."

"Right. Well, I think I can manage, plenty of practice by now. A bit like a paralysed contortion act, really."

"What?"

"– Don't you think?" She does have a point, as she wriggles free of her garment in a rather impressive manner, without much movement at all.

"Erm, yes."

And then there she stands, nearly naked, the most courageous, yet vulnerable, person I know and love – trusting me completely.

"Try to relax, Louisa, I will let you know before moving your arm in any way, alright?"

"Okay."

I start by placing the wrap against the upper middle of her back, on the right, reaching around her, then carrying it in a clockwise motion once and onto itself.

"I will need to enfold your upper arm once, then bring it back slightly, can you do that with me?"

"Yes."

She audibly exhales.

"– Ow!"

"Sorry." I still my movements and run my fingers lightly over her clavicle, which presents nondisplaced with only minor diastasis.

"You are healing well, prognosis is good . . ."

Continuing anti-clockwise I reach around once more before bringing the bandage diagonally up and across her back and over her good shoulder, stepping around to stand in front of her. She looks at me intently without uttering a word.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Bringing my left forearm across my chest to my right shoulder I mimic the next step.

"You need to carefully place your arm similar to mine, across your chest towards your right clavicle – as comfortably as possible."

She struggles trying to find a natural position for her forearm, hindered partially by her left breast, and looks to me for help.

"Erm . . . Louisa, can you, um – _above_, perhaps, if you . . . Let me, um." I give her the bandage roll to hold in place with her good hand while I take her weak hand and elbow and gently manoeuvre the arm into place, conveniently now supported by the curve of her breast.

"Like so, is that . . . acceptable? It is important that you are comfortable as it will be snug once –" She nods to the affirmative and I take the bandage from her hand and continue covering her arm and elbow and across her back and shoulder once more before fastening the end at her back.

"There. . . firmly in place."

To prevent the bandage from slipping during movement, I finish by securing it at the shoulder and elbow with a few strips of Elastoplast.

"You should be ready to . . . go to sleep now." As her dress is still pooled at her feet, I bend down to pick it up.

". . . No I'm not."

Her voice is off and I glance up seeing legs, hips, breasts and a very flushed Louisa looking down at me.

"You're . . . really good at that."

"It's not difficult . . . if you . . .um, concentrate . . ." And that ability is rapidly diminishing as I slowly stand back up.

"I need you Martin."

"Louisa . . ."

"Martin, please."

"Louisa, but . . . I worry I will . . . _hurt_ you. There is a big leap from 'leaning on your good side' to . . . and to –"

"– pouncing on me? Well this pirate-turned-one-armed-bandit isn't worried . . . and you might just get lucky, you know."

"Have you completely lost your mind, is it the opiates?"

"No, I haven't had any tonight . . . and I'm learning to be more _straightforward_, like you, so that you will understand what I mean."

"Oh I know what you want, um – mean. And I don't pounce."

"I know you don't, Martin, so I'll be in good hands – and I trust you."

"Yes, right."

_Lively. Determined. Courageous._

Asking me to think on why I love her, means I've subconsciously been thinking of little else.

I may admittedly not be very good at marriage, something I am determined to change.

Nonetheless, I do care deeply for Louisa and she looks so very beautiful and alive – hopeful green eyes looking up at me with wonderment and . . . something new?

– _Who am I to take that away?_

"You're . . . _feisty_, Louisa. Passionate, about most things in life. I've loved that about you since the first time I met you."

Caressing my cheek with her thumb she moves in and kisses me, pulling lightly at my bottom lip.

"Well then, Martin – a little of what you fancy does you good, yeah?"

. . .

And with that lewd reference spilling from her lips, Louisa will have her way – and I predict it will do us _both_ a world of good.

–The END

* * *

**~Epilogue~****  
**

_Bestow a Challenge 'pon mine Heart_

_So shall it beat with Purpose;_

_For Thou – whom Life hath set apart _

_With Beauty, Love – Vivacious._

_. . .  
_

_Intentions wholly misconstrued;_

_Disparity of Heart and Mind._

_Caught unawares by Solitude:_

_My Heart bestow'th to Thee in-kind._

_. . . _

_Now Complemented by Another,_

_Voids obscure infused by Thee: _

_A Treasured Spirit, Lover, Mother;_

_Lauded Teacher – Dear to Me. _

_. . . _

_Hence Sailing to a Common shore_

_Sunk not, by fears nor foibles._

_Then We Must Change, adrift no more:_

_Our Journey – Love emboldens._

_ – M.E._

_. . . _

* * *

**A/N:** A big thank you to every one of you who took the time to read my first story, and especially to those of you kind enough to leave a review and graciously welcome me into the Doc Martin Family. It is and has been a treat, this is such a lovely community. Maybe down the road I will explore how Martin and Louisa are coping when back at home, juggling real life and romance as one, but for now I will give them some much needed privacy. At this point there are a lot of your wonderful stories favorited or bookmarked awaiting me and I've got a lot of catching up to do. So with a homemade veggie pasty, a cuppa (white, no sugar) and a chocolate Digestive at the ready, back to Portwenn 'reading' mode I go! – DC


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